


For the man who has everything

by elliceluella



Series: Epitome of a dream [1]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Feels, Dreams, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, M/M, Multi, Post Season 2, Reference to suicide in dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2016-09-15
Packaged: 2018-08-08 23:22:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7777663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elliceluella/pseuds/elliceluella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Foggy shakes off his maudlin nonsense, embarrassed to find his face wet when he rubs the sleep from his eyes. All efforts to sit up are momentarily quelled by the barest hitch of a breath that is not his, and the pause gives Foggy time to notice that someone’s giving his blanket serious competition. </i>
  <br/>
  <i>Warm chest against his back, a firm but gentle arm around him. There’s no need to turn over to identify the source of warmth he’s cocooned in.</i>
</p><p>Foggy gets a taste of his perfect life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this [prompt](http://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/1742.html?thread=3123918#cmt3123918) on the kinkmeme.
> 
> A huge plate of cookies and gratitude to Significantowl for making this thing coherent! ♥♥

“I think I’ve finally got it,” Foggy says as they approach Matt’s apartment. Superhero or not, it always feels better when he gets to walk his best friend home. Or that’s what he tells Matt anyway, since it’s true enough. 

“Get what?”

“Why you have to do what you do. For the city.”

Matt’s brows disappear beneath his glasses, tongue darting out for a second. “Oh?” he asks, not quite able to keep the slight tremor out of his voice.

“It’s almost too much, isn’t it? Everything you experience. Everything you  _ feel _ . Things don’t affect you the same way they do everyone else, makes you react differently— which is probably why you tend to act first and think later.” Foggy emphasizes his affectionate frustration with a gentle squeeze to Matt’s arm.

“You have— you need to let it out, channel it into something good, or it’ll shred you from the inside out.” 

Matt loosens his white-knuckled grip on his cane and lets out a ragged breath, tongue dancing along his lower lip again. He tries to say something, mouth working soundlessly for a while before he gives up and settles for a nod, leaning into Foggy’s touch. Relief.

Fisk is where he belongs, and things are finally falling into place. 

“You wanna come in?” It’s the same old invitation, but stepping through Matt’s doorway comes weighted with a new, unnameable significance this time.

_ It’s a start.  _

===

“You uh, wanna come in for a beer?” It’s miles apart from the invitation a year ago. This one’s less like an invitation and more like a fragile, hopeful whisper, as if Matt finds it inappropriate to want more of Foggy’s time now that they’re no longer business partners. There are more things that they aren’t, but it doesn’t matter. Best friends or not, old habits die hard, which is why Foggy’s in front of Matt’s apartment after Karen leaves them to battle against an impending deadline.

It’s almost six months after the home they’ve built for themselves becomes history— after hurts become old enough they stop smarting ( _ “My better grasp of things now doesn’t make up for how shitty of a friend you were,” _ Foggy texted one night before deleting it at the last minute), after identity reveals lose their lingering shock and become mere fact— that Karen, Matt and Foggy come up with a painfully polite arrangement of drinks every few weeks.  _ Just so we don't become strangers, _ they had agreed, politely avoiding the deeper reason that remained at the tips of their tongues, something they couldn’t quite articulate. 

_ Magnets _ is the closest term Foggy can come up with, but even that’s too crude for his liking.

If their meetups are stilted in any way they don’t harp on it, because there’s no better alternative. As tenuous and fragile as this is, everyone’s soldiering on. They’ve all got a stake in this.

But maybe what they are— or aren’t— at the moment isn’t the final destination. Maybe it’s just a temporary pitstop, one they seem to be leaving behind with every meeting that comes along. Where they’re heading next is anyone’s guess, but at least they are moving forward. That has to count for something.

“Sure thing, buddy.”  _ Buddy.  _ Huh. It rolls off his tongue light and true, and hangs in the air like everything that had happened was a pinprick in the grand scheme of things. The smile that spreads slowly across Matt’s face is impossible to ignore—  a light bulb flickering to life, warm and incandescent. Maybe this is what Matt sees in his world on fire.

It feels like home again— no, it  _ is _ home, and it feels great: genuine easy laughter from both sides amid fond, albeit polite silences. Foggy doesn’t overstay his welcome, just in case Matt has...plans after this. No reason to undo the progress they’ve made so far.

Foggy sleeps with a smile on his face for the first time in months, swathed in happy memories. The one that lingers the longest is the conversation he’d been thinking of earlier, the one that forged a new start when he accepted how much of a necessity being Daredevil was. Foggy didn’t have to like it, but he understood.

The way Matt had smiled lit a fire that kept him warm some days but ached on others. It’s still there, a flickering, stubborn little thing, but thinking about it is more trouble than it’s worth so Foggy rations it.

But maybe he doesn’t have to anymore.

The three of them meet a few more times. Karen’s laughter, light and happy, fills the spaces between them, Matt starts telling his terrible jokes again, and Foggy even begins to schedule their meet ups in his calendar. The tie clip with the raised ‘F’, the one Matt got him for graduation, makes an appearance before eventually becoming a weekly tradition; a good luck charm— nothing more than a thinly veiled excuse to carry a happy memory with him— to chase the Monday blues away.

Call it shmoop, but maybe the ‘F’ stands for more than his name now. Friendships, forward, or family, Foggy keeps them as close to his chest as he does the tie clip.

He does the same when old nightmares creep back in.

They first started a year ago, after stepping through Matt’s doorway felt like a new start again, after realizing Matt had to hurt on the outside so he wouldn’t on the inside. But just because Matt  could take a knife to the ribs didn't mean the gash bled any less .

It begins simply enough this time: Matt climbing through Foggy’s window raw and bleeding; stuttered, wet breaths puncturing his apologies for messing up Foggy’s apartment.

Then it morphs into Matt pleading, eyes wide and a little wet, for Foggy not to use his safe word, the one he made Foggy come up with just in case things got too much, after he caved and agreed to teach Foggy basic boxing techniques back in law school. The one filled with affection but had come to mean  _ please stop getting hurt, Matt, _ because that knife in Foggy’s gut twisted a little more with every new injury Matt sustained. 

The one with five letters.  _ Matty _ . 

He begs Foggy not to use it, because it hurts when he can’t keep his promises. There’s a whole lot of  _ I can’t not get hurt, Foggy, not when so many people need help; _ and  _ Don’t you remember what you told me, Foggy? That you finally understood? Do you want it to eat me alive just so you’ll stop worrying?  _

Worst of all:  _ Would you be that selfish, Foggy? _

The downward spiral is swift and staggering: Matt walking into  _ their _ office— because in his dreams losing everything he treasures is still a possibility— entrails on full display but with a smile that’s always soft and easy as he says “Good morning, Foggy,” and laughs at Karen’s jokes. 

Eventually every night ends with Foggy losing his unwavering north. It wears at him, and if his laugh is hollower, his smile more brittle, no one says anything. 

It doesn’t help when Matt moves a little stiffly during their meetups sometimes, gritting his teeth and wincing when he sits. Foggy usually tries to take his cue from Karen in times like these, eagle-eyed but not commenting about anything she spies, holding herself with superbly coiled ease and speaking with a warm lilt as if she’s none the wiser. 

Success varies, and often it’s only the grim line on Matt’s mouth, flickering on and off, that tells Foggy his heart is still, as it always was, a traitor. They’re both polite enough not to bring this up, because  _ we don't need to talk about it.  _ They’re not there yet, anyway.

It takes them a while, but it happens one night. They’re all perched comfortably on Matt’s couch in a post-movie haze, Karen’s legs draped across Matt’s and Foggy’s laps while Matt leans into the arm that Foggy rests behind him. And then it hits them— they’re almost there.

The realization strikes quick but it lingers, bright and fizzy in the air between them. Foggy catches Karen’s gaze, and Matt gives Karen’s and Foggy’s knee a gentle squeeze. Nobody wonders about Matt’s sudden laugh that bubbles up brilliant and delighted because it sums up everything they feel in the moment. It feels infinite, and Foggy revels in all of it, files it away as a balm for the mornings, something to help him cope with night after night of twisting in sheets that reek of stale sweat and worry. 

They’re almost there. They’ll make it. 

A sudden, deafening crash yanks them out of the moment, scatters everything until infinite feels more like a blip in time.

Karen shrieks, and Foggy makes an embarrassing sound he never wants to make again. Matt’s already heading for the chest underneath the stairs. Another crash follows a minute later, this time with a chorus of screams and screeching tires. Karen shoots Foggy a look, brows creased, but Matt reappears in the suit before Foggy can even get his mouth to work again. 

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t,” Matt says, lips quirked, and then he’s up the stairs to the roof. 

“Seriously? Now you make a joke?” Karen calls after him and Foggy just groans. They scramble out the door and make their way down to the street.

A spindly man stands in the midst of the wreckage, armored in something vaguely resembling a type of cacti. Foggy’s usually quick with names and faces, but it takes awhile to place the man before him because this looks nothing like the Samuel Smithers splashed across newspapers a month ago. 

The botanist-scientist was dubbed “Crazy Plant Man” and made the butt of jokes after he got fired and lost it, hosing down various parts of the city in a harmless plant-based slime, screaming something about stolen inventions and dreams. 

The same snarl is still there, but a hard, furious focus now sits where a crazed look used to on Smithers’ gaunt face. Nothing about him invites mockery this time— not the armor, and definitely not the gun that’s discharging green beams of light with a disturbing glow and an even more disturbing hiss when they make contact with anything. Smithers hasn’t shot anyone yet, more interested in making a scene by destroying buildings, traffic lights, and vehicles with cold efficiency and a colder gaze.

He barks out a vicious laugh when Matt steps forward. 

“Daredevil.” Smithers grins, all teeth and taut lips. “How fortuitous! I've never been one to be petty, so here. Consider Oblivia my gift to the city who took my dreams and identity from me. And you, sir, will have the honor of being the first recipient. Gorge on your desires to your heart’s content!”

He makes a brief show of the gun in his hand before pointing it square at Matt’s chest.

It’s over in a second. Matt charges forward before Smithers even moves his finger to the trigger, leaps with a vicious grace over his head and knocks him out with a short flurry of blows. Without a weapon, Smithers isn’t one for combat. 

Watching Matt do what he does on grainy news footage is one thing, but watching Matt in action? It’s breathtaking— amazingly, terrifyingly breathtaking, and Foggy isn’t sure if he wants out of this trance. 

A little girl makes the decision for him. She’s kneeling beside an upturned car, sobbing whimpers of “Mommy, mommy!” and trying to cling to her unconscious mother who’s still trapped in her seat. Matt makes his way over and crouches down, whispering something to the girl before he gently pulls her mother out of the vehicle.

Everyone’s so caught up in the moment no one notices Smithers getting up and training his weapon on Matt’s back until it’s too late. Blood trickles down a corner of his mouth when he stretches it into a mangled snarl. 

Foggy goes into autopilot, a distant part of himself realizing this is what is must be like for Matt when he acts without thinking. It makes his heart work harder, his blood roar in his ears; it’s agony, it’s brilliant, and so worth it. Anything that lets Foggy prevent those nightmares from playing out in reality will always be worth it.

He barely feels the burn in his knees when he sinks down onto the asphalt and his head is swimming, but it’s impossible to ignore what’s going on in front of him: Matt disarming Smithers with a furious scream and a hard kick to his sternum, and then there’s a horrifying crack as Smithers’ head meets with a wall nearby. The next thing Foggy registers is the warmth that comes from Matt cradling him in his lap.

He blinks, and then Karen’s by his side, wrapping his hand in her shaking ones, wet breaths punctured with tears. “Hang in there, Foggy. Help’s on its way. Just— just hang on, please.” 

“Karen,” Foggy gasps, throat dry.  _ Are you okay? _ he wants to ask, but she understands and nods her head quickly. 

“Shhh. It’s okay, Foggy, I’m fine. Try to keep your eyes open, okay?” Karen says. 

“F— Foggy, Foggy, you shouldn’t have done that. I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” Matt babbles over and over, and Foggy takes an almost shameful comfort in the way he’s enveloped in Matt. It hurts when he tries to raise his other arm high enough to wipe Matt’s tears off. 

“Can’t stand seeing you hurt,” Foggy rasps out, and Matt— Matt’s sobbing so hard that the ache in Foggy’s arm barely registers when he reaches Matt’s elbow for a pat.

“Please don’t cry, Matty.” He ekes out a smile and puts everything he has in it, because Matt deserves every single one.

Foggy looks over at Karen and squeezes her hand, flicks his gaze to Matt before coming back to her. He hopes his  _ take care of each other _ will translate, and then everything goes dark.


	2. Chapter 2

Whatever Foggy assumes he’d been dreaming about straight-up fizzles the moment he wakes. He fills that gap by assuming it's one of the nicer dreams, something of the Matt Murdock Emotional Psychic slash Professional Mood Booster variety, or maybe it's the one where Matt takes him on adventures around hidden pockets of the city.

Everything’s kind of sideways in a confused fog but it also isn’t, and right at the back of his head is a muffled nagging that always lurks in the periphery.

If Foggy had any say in the frivolous fantasies he’s occasionally indulged in, they would extend beyond a wistful sigh or a dream. At the top of that list: a less fatal way to sate the devil within— a way that Foggy got to be a part of. Somehow.

And shamefully, selfishly, a little lower down from there: Matt holding Foggy close at the end of the night when he didn’t feel like he was going to be shredded from the inside out anymore, relief and something else— home? filling his words, saying “thanks for sticking by me” to which, without fail, Foggy would reply with an “always”.

Foggy shakes off his maudlin nonsense, embarrassed to find his face wet when he rubs the sleep from his eyes. All efforts to sit up are momentarily quelled by the barest hitch of a breath that is not his, and the pause gives Foggy time to notice that someone’s giving his blanket serious competition.

Warm chest against his back, a firm but gentle arm around him. There’s no need to turn over to identify the source of warmth he’s cocooned in.

It doesn’t make sense, but something sits uneasy in the pit of his stomach. An odd disappointment of sorts, like receiving first place for a project he’d been looking forward to completing. It’s hollow and overwhelming at the same time, and for a good moment it’s all Foggy can focus on, the question of how he even ended up here in the first place a tiny speck light years away.

“Mmrph,” Foggy groans. “What happn’d,” he tries again when the only response he gets is the shield of warmth curling tighter around him. That and a poorly muffled sniffle.

“...are you crying?”  

Another sniffle. “No.”

“Matt,” Foggy huffs out, reluctantly putting distance between himself and the comfortable warmth to finally turn over and— Matt’s face is a mess; splotchy eyes and red nose tugging something in Foggy’s chest. Matt looks lost for a second, hands grasping at the sudden loss of Foggy before they fumble a little and quickly fold themselves against his chest.

“Hey,” Foggy says, trying to keep his voice as soft as possible. “Talk to me Matty. What happened?”

“I didn’t. I didn’t know,” his words break into staccatoed fragments. “I m-mean… I mean I didn’t know it was this bad.” Matt’s curling in on himself, raw vulnerability and guilt so visceral it knocks the wind right out of Foggy.

It takes him another second to get his breath back, to place what Matt is saying.  “Did I… Whatever it was that I said, I didn’t mean— ”

“You said.” Matt briskly swipes over his eyes, a hitch in his breath making his arm jerk. “That I didn’t have to apologize or feel guilty for who I am, because you’d never give up on me. You couldn’t. And then you said… you said you’d swallow all your fears about me no matter how much they hurt, because you were scared they’d sound like an ultimatum and I’d walk out on you if I knew.”

 _Oh_.

There’s a furtive gratefulness for being cut off when he did, because there’s no way Foggy could’ve finished that sentence without lying.

He’s definitely thought about everything Matt just said, and the truth behind it cuts like a knife in the ribs. It jostles loose a part of Foggy that he would've liked to keep hidden until it eventually melded into the walls of his very being, but it's also the kind of secret that’s stark truth, something he can’t— and won’t, if he's being painfully honest with himself, take back once it’s out there. It’s painfully contrary, just like the subject of his secret.

Matt’s breath hitches again. He’s not done. “Then you started crying and said you didn’t want to do any of this alone. You kept apologizing for being afraid and not being a better friend and it’s not true— it’s not. I should’ve been the one apologizing Foggy, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” Matt keens and curls in on himself, full on crying, big hiccupping sobs that wrench and squeeze and hurt to watch. “Sorry I never told you h-how much you...anchor me to everything important, I should’ve...I—”

Maybe the wild drumming going off in Foggy’s chest will say everything that words can’t, because the pain that Matt’s confession elicits in the softest parts of Foggy is an overwhelming sear that leaves him speechless, tight knot in his throat making it hurt to breathe.

Matt ends up against Foggy’s chest and they stay that way for a long time, until Matt calms down and the both of them stop shaking.

“I ruined your shirt.” Matt plucks sadly at Foggy’s shirt and sniffles, stuffy-nosed and hoarse. Fond memories of flu and allergies stir up. Foggy aborts his feeble attempt to wave off Matt’s apology and sits up, grabs the tissue box from his night stand and puts it in Matt’s lap.

“I’ll be right back,” Foggy says, getting off the bed and heading towards the kitchen. Grabbing the pint of chocolate ice cream from his freezer along with two spoons, he makes his way back to Matt who’s all slump-shouldered and crooked-mouthed, picking at the bedspread. Foggy settles in, cross-legged and facing Matt.

“C’mon,” he coaxes, waving the ice cream in front of Matt. “It’s the fancy kind you got me into.” Matt’s lip quivers the moment Foggy presses a spoon into his hand.

“Hey, hey. Shhh. I am invoking my right as best friend and vetoing your current guilt-induced ice cream boycott. Here,” Foggy says, taking Matt’s spoon from his hand and dipping it into the tub. Matt still looks upset. It's a gamble, but Foggy mimics the sound of an airplane as he waves the spoon in the air, zipping and swerving before stopping in front of Matt’s face. It used to do the trick whenever Matt got ill and turned into a petulant, sulky kid who refused to eat his dinner. Matt would always give in, but not without rolling his eyes and trying not to laugh.

It’s no different this time. Matt’s faux moue breaks as he huffs a quiet chuckle, rolls his eyes before grabbing the spoon from Foggy. “Gimme that,” he says, humming once the spoon disappears inside his mouth.

Foggy knows better than to ask Matt how he's feeling because there's only so much ice cream can fix. He settles for asking “Good?” instead, and the relief from Matt’s nod is small but not insignificant. Foggy's not exactly the poster boy of calm right now, but it’s nice to know that he contributed to ‘good’. It always has been, because true reward resided in smiles and quiet gestures of appreciation. And Matt, Matt was a well of all those things once Foggy knew where and how to look.

They’re going to have to talk about what just happened, but there’s no reason why they can’t play chicken in the meantime.

Matt breaks first, because a bite doesn't last forever, and there’s only so much phantom ice cream he can pretend to taste on his spoon. Foggy’s still putting an order to the words in his head, coiling tension not quite at breaking point yet.

Foggy stiffens when Matt takes a breath. “Sorry,” Foggy mumbles, wincing from the guilt that flares up at Matt’s expression.

“Um.” Matt clears his throat, fingers beginning their usual dance on the bedspread, and Foggy steels himself. This is where they’ll pick at threads and hope everything unspools in their favor. “I know I’ll never be able to make it up to you, and I really am sorry. For everything I put you through.” Foggy rests a hand on Matt’s knee— he needs to stop with the apologies because they’re stinging like grazed skin.

Matt gets the message loud and clear, gives a short nod. “I uh, I had some time to think, before you woke.”

Foggy pulls his hand back. He knows what Matt’s going to say. It’s already filling him with nauseating guilt.

“I don’t want you to stop being Daredevil,” he blurts out. It’s terrifying and frustrating and why he’s so afraid for Matt, but this is a part of who Matt is, what he needs, and Foggy knows that on some level. Matt is speechless, mouth going slack.

“But maybe we could...it would be nice if you’d—” Why is he so nervous?

“It's okay Foggy, I… I promise I won't—”

It’s Foggy’s turn to play with the hem of his shirt. “It would really mean a lot if you could include me in...when you go out at night.”

“Okay. I will.” Matt’s smile is soft, spreading slow but sure and settling warm and rich in the air around them.

It smoothes Foggy’s edges until he almost forgets he has them in the first place. He doesn’t have it in him to pinch himself. “Just like that?” It’s the best substitute he can muster.

“Yeah, Foggy.” Matt reaches over and gives Foggy’s wrist a gentle squeeze. “Elektra was right; I can’t keep this up alone. I need to do this right. I— I need to start being honest.”

“No secrets,” Foggy whispers, old words from a lifetime ago.

“Maverick and Goose.” It feels good to be a part of the memory that’s tucked under the quirk of Matt’s lip.

It feels even better to know that Nelson and Murdock will extend beyond office hours, beyond looking out for their city through loopholes and closing statements. To know that Foggy gets a say in strategies and contingencies, gets to talk Matt down from giving into impulse, to try out a lighter touch.

There’s a reason why they’re partners— for all the similarities they’ve shared: liking to win, helping those in need and quenching that sharp thirst for justice, they’ve always complimented each other perfectly, completing a whole picture by filling in the other’s outlines.

“We give this a shot. We communicate, support each other, work through any problems that might crop up. No more assumptions or equivocation. Just, plain ol’ honesty,” Matt reaffirms, the corners of his mouth tugging upwards into something that eventually settles into a big dumb grin.

“Plain ol’ honesty,” Foggy agrees. “Perhaps we could start with what that face is for?”

“It’s just,” Matt laughs, “this. It’s different.”

“Good different?”

“Great different. I like it,” Matt says, and his grin slips even wider.

There’s no need for pinching or substitutes this time.

“I don’t have to leave, we can get takeout tonight,” Matt suggests later, as dusk begins to settle over the city. It’s probably going against the laws of... _something_ that he’s more eager than Foggy is for a night in.

“But what about your...” Foggy vaguely waves his hands, “bat signal and scarlet pimpernel-ing?” He’s never eager to see Matt leave but he’s picked up a thing or two in the art of masking all clingy tendencies. Matt chuckles.

“Daredevil still needs food to function.” He scratches his ear and clears his throat when Foggy doesn’t reply immediately, and Foggy can see the exact moment when uncertainty seeps in.

As if Foggy could ever say no to that face. “How about we christen the start of Great Different with greasy food and a movie?” he suggests. “I’ll tell you if I hear anything out there.”

Matt ends up staying the night after three movies and one too many beers, so happy and hopeful Foggy has to restrain himself from asking if Matt would like to move in, and the city stays peaceful the entire night.

Foggy’s not complaining.

===

Unexpectedly landing in a good karma bingo phase would help explain the Nothing Sucks streak Foggy’s currently on. There’s a steady stream of clients with the kinds of cases Foggy got called idealistic for dreaming about in law school, they never lose a case, and there’s finally, _finally_ enough in the kitty to get the entire office air-conditioned.

Karen vehemently denies any discreet shedding of tears after she gets first person honors to turn the AC on, but she doesn’t when she signs the lease for an apartment that’s right across the hall from Doris. They celebrate with an impromptu pizza party at the office, and a fancier one complete with champagne after they help her move in.

Foggy’s favorite thing about this streak is the complete absence of stitches now that major crimes and syndicates just _aren’t_ around. Muggings and aggressive assholes, sure, but no more drug rings, no more human trafficking, and no more kingpins.

The insidious stench that used to permeate the streets has almost become a fading echo.

Water and fumigation issues lead to a roomies redux after Matt asks if Foggy would like their temporary arrangement to be more permanent. They quickly fall into a routine of having dinner before Matt goes out, even perfecting a shorthand communication system in case regular patrols turn into something more. Sometimes dinner gets interrupted, but after a quick discussion about the safest and smartest way to handle things Matt always comes back home to a warm meal again.

Huh, _home_. Foggy doesn’t remember when Matt’s place became synonymous with home, or when it started to feel that way. Matt’s never looked more at home either, something in his gait and the way he carries himself that’s looser and softer, something that breaks Foggy’s heart to know Matt’s been holding this bit of tension all this time, even in his own home.

But Matt’s always been good at distracting him, at taking his mind off a hurt until it stops smarting entirely. This time it’s in the way he’s incredibly unguarded and open, handing Foggy a master key so he isn’t left second guessing anything.

Everything’s in a heightened state of familiarity, from the curl of fingers around his elbow to the cocksure grin that accompanies a popsicle when Foggy’s three seconds away from flipping his desk. (“Any higher and your poor shoulders are going to leave dents in the ceiling tiles. Here, it’s mango-peach, your favorite.”) The best moments are when Matt does something that speaks of their sure, comfortable ease— drinking from Foggy’s glass, snuggling under the same blanket on the couch because “the cupboard’s too far away,” and puttering around in Foggy’s clothes (“Why do two loads of laundry when we can both wear yours instead?”).

He’s had ample time to get used to this, the accumulation of Good Things and Home that’s been steadily trickling in. There’s no reason to be surprised when Matt _really_ opens up.

He's still absolutely speechless when it happens.

“Hey Foggy? You know how I promised no more secrets?” It starts from Matt’s ears, red and creeping towards his cheeks, fingers forced unnaturally still. Everything’s off-kilter and the pleasant buzz from his too greasy chow mein and cheap beer is waning, but Foggy _will not_ jump to conclusions no matter how brightly the Worst Case Scenario sign is flashing.

“Yeah?” So what if his lips are dry? He will not do it. Mind over matter, etcetera.

“It’s not bad, I mean—” Matt quickly jumps in, and oh, Foggy’s traitorous heart. Ever the rebel against his mind. Matt pauses, does that thing where his lips move silently like a reminder to just _breathe_ , and carries on. “It might be, but I hope it’s not? It’s just that— I uh, I. I realized I never told you something.”

“Told me what?” Sweaty palms, right on cue.

Matt ducks his head but moves closer until their knees touch, gently takes the empty beer bottle long forgotten in Foggy’s hand and sets it on the table before slipping his own hand into Foggy’s, warm and sure. For a moment Foggy’s entire world narrows down to that singular point of contact, of belonging.

“O-kay,” is the best Foggy comes up with, still reeling from the emotional whiplash. He bites his lip, wonders just how contagious the heat from Matt’s face is while his heart performs some wild, gymnastic feat.

“I’ve never told you how— You’re _everything_ , Foggy. You make me feel alive. You make me care, make me feel like everything I do is worth the effort. And I love how we just— ”

“We just _work_ ,” Foggy says, breathless, ears ringing. He feels it too, deep in his bones, knows they’ll always be placed in each other’s orbit.

Matt's "yeah" is shaky, an awed whisper, but his hands aren't. Foggy’s always loved how solid and sure they were, loves them even more now that they’re touching him; one in his hand while the other finds Foggy’s face, fingertips grazing the ends of his hair before a palm slides up and cups his cheek.

Foggy shivers; it's too much, too intimate and familiar all at once and the small part of him that’s always scared shudders but he _wants_ this, always has for the longest time. He gives in— leans into Matt’s touch, steps off the precipice and falls into something so vast and bottomless he might as well be flying.

“You once told me I could want anything in the world,” Matt says, voice thick and rasping. “And I— I want you, Foggy.” Matt has never looked so fervent or hopeful before. Foggy wants to dwell in that openness forever, wants to keep this moment for as long as he can, wants to catalog this memory of feeling wanted. Something to replay when his self-doubt gets the better of him.

“I’m right here,” Foggy says, soft, turns his head and presses his lips against Matt’s palm. “All yours, Matty. Always.”

When Matt leans in and brushes Foggy’s cheek with his thumb, kisses him earnest and urgent that Foggy opens up for him with a gasp, he knows what the truth is as strongly as he _feels_ it.

Matt is his, too.

===

“Hey,” Foggy whispers a couple mornings later, nudging Matt gently with his thigh. He could get used to this, waking up to Matt nuzzling his neck and spooning him, arms and legs twined with his own, shirt riding up in his sleep so half his back is warm against Matt’s bare torso.

He’d been trying to get out of bed for the last half hour, but every time his toes touched the floor Matt would pull him back in with a murmured “just a little while more,” sleepy and playful, and damn if he didn’t give Matt whatever he wanted.

“Hmm?” Matt props himself up on an arm and tilts his head just so, angling a sideways smile at Foggy. Sleep still clings at its edges, and Foggy wants to press fingertips to them.

“Do you ever feel like we’re nearing the big, cruel twist in our story where everything turns out to be some huge crazy dream?”

“How do you mean?” The question comes out garbled around a yawn.

“Not that I don’t love how awesome things have been, but sometimes everything feels...too perfect? I’m scared that it’s all going to disappear one day.” It's his first time acknowledging it aloud; he's side-stepped it when alone, along with the other nagging fear that questions if all this could be weathering his emotional fortitude away. Making him weak. Choosing to be ‘reckless-abandon levels of happy’ never came without a price.  

Matt adjusts them until Foggy’s head rests on his chest, gentle fingers tracing circles on his arm. Everything feels warm and solid, and Foggy tries to breathe in as much of Matt as he can.

“You’re stuck with me, Nelson. Never gonna give you up.”

Foggy turns, squints up at Matt’s jaw and snorts. There; that little smirk, perching proudly on his face, waiting for Foggy to take the bait.

“You are terrible,” Foggy groans, not bothering to hide his laugh. “But really? Not even for those organic blueberries you moon over when they’re out of stock?”

“I don’t moon,” Matt protests, lips halfway to forming a pout before they stop. “And I’m _your_ terrible now, so no returns.” He presses a kiss into Foggy’s hair. “Every day as Nelson and Murdock, as _us_ ,” he laces their fingers together, “is more than I could’ve asked for. I never thought I’d have this. I never thought I’d—” There’s a fine shudder on his exhale.

Foggy picks up on the unspoken _have you_ at the end.  “Me too, buddy,” he says. “Me too.”

“So, yes,” Matt says, after a quiet moment carding fingers through Foggy’s hair. “If this is a dream, I’m settling in extra cozy, because I’m never waking up.”

That conviction leaves a disconcerting twinge in Foggy’s chest for the rest of the day.

===

Karen quips about familiarity and contempt after turning down an invitation to Josie’s at the end of the day.

“Besides, I’m trying to make the most of finally having friends who aren’t you guys, and Josie’s exquisite swill doesn’t quite cut it,” she adds, just before her laughter at Foggy’s scandalized gasp trails out the door behind her.

It's just like old times, after the end of every semester. Matt’s giggly and smiling at the ceiling, fingers tapping lightly to the music against his knee as he leans heavily into Foggy, except this time he's playing a half-assed game of footsie while his lips keep finding their way to Foggy’s shoulder. The only reason why they haven’t gone any higher is because Josie had hollered “This bar already has enough germs!” albeit with a poorly masked grin.

Matt’s flushed and soft— why is soft quickly becoming a recurring theme?— and doing that thing where he acts like he’s more plastered than he actually is, and Foggy loves him for it. It might be the alcohol, it might be love; hell, it’s probably some weird alchemy of both, but Foggy’s never felt so content to be in his nest of warmth, noise, familiar faces, and Matt.

The last few chords of another song fade out through the speakers.

“Finally,” Josie grunts, looking at the clock against the side of the liquor shelf. The CD in the player gets replaced with another one.

The guitar intro plays for all of two seconds before Matt groans, prompting Foggy to laugh at him. Josie throws them a stink eye. _Closing Time_ was Josie’s way of clearing the bar when she didn’t feel like yelling for everyone to get the hell out within the next fifteen minutes.

“I hate that I actually like this song now. This is entirely your fault,” Matt mock-grumbles.

“Pish posh.” Foggy elbows him in the ribs. “This is a true 90's _masterpiece_! And we both know you’d never leave your desk if I didn’t have this song on repeat every Friday evening annoying you out of that glorified broom closet.”

“True,” Matt acquiesces into his beer. Then he perks up. “Hey, you remember our last day?” Something cheeky lurks behind that question.

Foggy raises an eyebrow. “What, the day you finally caved and we had an impromptu dance party to this song?”

Matt grins. “And then you nearly fell off your desk singing ‘Take me home, Matt!’” His tipsy cover slips for a second when something sharp and playful flashes across his face. Bingo.

“Oh, young Franklin. If only you knew,” Foggy drawls, nudges his shoulder against Matt’s. “Thank you for catching me, Matt’s very manly arms.” Foggy accentuates the last part with a squeeze to Matt’s bicep. “I presume my swooning in that moment was up to satisfaction?”

“Very,” Matt assures him, and Foggy wants to kiss that smug look right off his face. Matt hums along to the song, off-key enough for Foggy to pick it apart from everything else in the bar.

He’s heard it so many times the song has weaved itself into a background noise he could tune out and pick back up any time he wants to, but something is off this time. He can’t shut the music out; it’s almost like something’s forcing him to pay attention to the song.

When he gets to ‘ _You don't have to go home but you can't stay here_ ’ his mouth snaps shut so fast there’s an audible click when teeth meets teeth, and he’s struggling not to hurl by the time ‘ _Time for you to go out to the places you will be from_ ’ rolls around.

_Of course._

He doesn’t know how or why, and it sure as hell isn’t making any sense, but it’s true. He just knows it.

“Foggy? You feeling okay there?”

No. No, he’s not. Doesn’t think he’ll ever be, but no need for alarm. He slaps on a smile, not sure who it’s more for, and simply says, “Take me home, Matt.”

===

Of course. How he hadn’t picked it up sooner was beyond him.

There was zero conflict in this perfectly sculpted world of _soft_ (there’s that word again)— soft curves, smooth surfaces, comfortable everything. He could only hide behind confusion and doubt for so long and the moment was here, sinking heavy and jagged deep into his gut.

Chalk everything great that’d happened so far up to one giant smoke bubble. He cranks up the hot water in the shower, lets the steam and hot water mask his tears, and muffles the rest as best as he can with his hand.

Foggy stares at the ceiling. Light from the street lamps filters through the grimy windows, splays out on the sheets and half of the floor in a patchy luminescence. Matt’s sound asleep, lips slightly parted around a half smile, perfect as always.

It’s terrifying and infuriating; he’d probably stand a better chance at catching smoke, because a blank is all he draws every time he tries to remember anything else before he woke up to Matt curled around him.

He debates telling Matt everything, but then there’d only be heartbreak for Matt down that road when Foggy’s heart beats truth, truth, truth the entire time he spouts what’s going to sound like crazy talk.

“Foggy?” Matt murmurs sleepily, rubs a hand up and down Foggy’s arm when he startles. “You okay? Your breathing sounds...sad.”

“Yeah, just the post-drink blues I guess. Sorry I woke you. Try to go back to sleep, okay?” Foggy leans over to kiss Matt on the forehead.

“Okay,” Matt sighs happily, yawns, then pats Foggy’s arm one more time. “Don’t be blue. Make you your favorite happy breakfast tomorrow. With extra bacon.”

Foggy bites his lip hard, lets the pain distract him from the pang in his chest. “Thanks, Matty.”

“Mm. Love you ‘oggy.”

He has another decision to make, a bigger one, but in the meantime he’s got to act like everything’s normal, got to believe he’s as okay as this...place isn’t real. It’s not going to be _that_ much of a lie, would it? Remove the giant unreal elephant from the equation and Foggy Nelson’s more than peachy.

But just how much _less_ peachy is real life? The thought that he might be here because he’s dead or dying is terrifying. He shakes his head, redirects the questions. What if everything that’s happened here has been some indication of what’s missing over there? Staying here would ultimately be empty and meaningless, but could he go back to a place where he’s maybe on the outs with Matt?

Foggy presses the heel of his palm against his eyes, hard, and scoffs. As if it was even a choice.

Matt’s somewhere out there in the real world. And even if their relationship isn’t what he’d like it to be, even if real life isn’t remotely close to what he has here, he owes it to Matt, and himself, to at least try to get back to him. He needs to know he _tried_ , needs to know that he gave whatever might need fixing a shot, even if that means trading gold mists for a broken brick.

No more hiding and playing house.

He repeats this to himself when Matt lets out a soft sigh and wiggles in closer to him, pesky little doubts of the _what if there’s no reality to return to because I’m dead_ variety trying to dig their claws into his resolve.

But when Foggy falls into a fitful sleep he dreams that he chooses to stay, because the only way back is to cease existing in this realm and...that’s too hard of a choice to make. So he hides in silk and denial despite knowing he’ll always be alone— in his knowledge, in this truth.

===

Karen lies next to Foggy and Matt on the rooftop. It’s the city— they’ll be hard pressed to spot any stars but the sky is still beautiful, clouds reflecting the lights below with an orange glow.

“We need to make TGIF rooftop picnics a regular thing,” Karen says, patting her stomach.

“Hear hear.” Foggy shifts his arms out from under his head and sits up as he pours a toast. “To Team Avocado, the best people I’ve had the pleasure of knowing. I love you guys,” he says, playing it casual like any sudden bouts of sentimentality are to be blamed entirely on the alcohol. This doesn’t have to be a farewell picnic because who knows, maybe they can have this for real when he gets back. Think positive. He _needs_ to see this through.

He gives Karen an extra tight hug before she leaves, though; tells himself this won’t be the last time he sees her.

“Foggy, what’s— ” Karen’s puzzled, slightly concerned. _I want to help_ is beautifully knitted where her brows are starting to crease, and Foggy loves her for it. He’d probably tell her the truth in another life.

“Shhh,” Foggy cuts her off. “The need for me to express my gratitude towards my favorite co-worker burns strong tonight.” He grins, and pulls her in for another hug.

“Wait, I thought that was me,” Matt says, pouting, and Karen giggles.

“Sorry, buddy. But hey, you’re my favorite roomie. That’s gotta count for something, right?” Foggy winks at Karen when she presses fingers to her lips.

“Eh.” Matt gives up the act, shrugs, and walks over to peck Foggy on the cheek.

“You guys,” Karen sighs, “are going to spoil love for me.”

“I love you,” Foggy tells Matt again when they’re back in the apartment, and means every word with everything he has. It’s also a silent plea that he’ll get to say it again one day but just in case— he needs this moment for himself; that whether here or there, at least he got to say it, that at least one version of Matt has heard it and knows he means it. Matt goes dopey and pleased, trails a hand up Foggy’s arm until it reaches the nape of his neck and tangles his fingers in his hair.

“I love _you_ ,” Matt says, closing the gap between them, lips brushing feather-soft against Foggy’s for a moment, reverent like Foggy is something special to treasure, and then they’re pressing warmer and telling Foggy how much he’s loved in a way words never will. Foggy responds in kind until they’re both flushed and breathless, breathing in each other’s air when their foreheads are pressed together.

This. This is a memory worth every possible hurt in the future.

===

The better half of Saturday is spent at the park, then grocery shopping, and then they lose the rest of the day to blueberry muffins (slightly burnt because Distractions), silk sheets and dinner before Matt heads out for patrol. It’s a perfect day of quiet domestic bliss, and Foggy’s grateful he gets to leave on a high note.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” Matt says, kisses Foggy before putting his cowl on.

 _Me too. Wait for me, okay?_ Foggy wants to ask but just nods instead; lets Matt think this is why he’s been quiet after dinner.

“Be careful out there, Matty.” He manages a smile, watches Matt go up the stairs, waits until he knows Matt’s out of range before he gives in to the stinging behind his eyes and makes his way to the roof.

Time to go.

He’d even paid his parents, Bess, and Brett a visit, just in case the paranoid voice worrying that his attempt might end up being a fatal dud was right.

The chilly air nips at his ears and nose. Foggy leaves voicemails for both Matt and Karen because real or not, it’s the right thing to do and he needs them to know how much they mean to him. It takes him several attempts get the words out because listening to their voices makes his own wobble. His goodbyes taste like ash.

Some jerk in the next building is singing _Closing Time_ at the top of his lungs.

A bitter laugh huffs out of him.“Yeah, yeah. I get it.” He wipes cold tears from his cheeks and carefully swings his legs over the ledge, breathes in deep and lets it out slow. He can do this. This is not the end; he’ll definitely see them again. He _will_.

“Wait for me, Matty,” Foggy whispers like a prayer, then closes his eyes and leans forward at the same time. He ignores the odd surge of pressure in his ears as he falls and tries his best to cling to the thought of seeing his friends again.

This had better not hurt.


	3. Chapter 3

It doesn’t.

===

Sound is the first thing that returns, taking the form of Matt's soothing voice as he whispers a litany of “I’m here, I’m right here Foggy,” shaky and wet at certain parts like he’s struggling to keep a whole wall of emotions at bay. It’s also just this side of hoarse, familiar enough that an ache winds its way around Foggy’s heart, the memory of a dream where Matt plucked at his damn shirt lingering at the back of his mind.

Touch is next; his hand in both of Matt’s, thumbs sweeping gently over Foggy’s palm and the back of his hand.

Foggy’s afraid to open his eyes, isn’t sure he has it in him to leave again if wherever he is now turns out to be another limbo of sorts, but— no. He remembers everything: no more Nelson and Murdock, then newly rebuilt friendships with Karen and Matt, getting hurt by Smithers, and...everything after that.

This is real.

A wet gasp and a trembling touch to his shoulder prods him to take that final step into the light.

 _Hospital_ is the first thing that registers. Fluorescent lights, white walls, stiff, sterilized sheets.

He works his throat over once, twice, because the first word out his mouth needs to sound right. Foggy’s been saying it over and over in his perfect world, he knows it better than his own name.

“Matt.” It's a little raspy, but it's all there. Every vowel and consonant on the first try.

The small, tremulous smile on Matt’s face that threatens to flit away any second— oh, what he wouldn’t do to make sure that smile stays and maybe, grow— is the only thing Foggy focuses on for a good three seconds.

“Foggy?” Matt’s breath catches a little at the end. No one’s uttered his name so gently before. Foggy takes a moment to look— really look at his friend, and as welcoming as that sight is, it hurts just as much. Frown lines etched so deeply they might as well have been carved in, eyes and nose so red they betray the amount of time Matt has spent worrying. About Foggy.

He lifts a hand to Matt’s face. Whether it’s shaking from exhaustion or gratitude to be back he’ll never know. Matt’s hands cover Foggy’s immediately.

“Hey, Matty,” Foggy croaks; throat still bone-dry but maybe that’s okay, maybe Matt hears everything else Foggy wants to say with those two words. A choked sob breaks away from Matt the same time his face crumbles in relief.

And then Matt cries.

Foggy could never stand to watch his best friend cry, and Matt— it was the same for him, Matt had said. Foggy remembers the hushed admission uttered one rainy night as Karen dozed in between them, her head resting on a cushion on Foggy’s lap while her legs draped over Matt’s. She had cried herself to exhaustion talking about Ben.

Matt’s sobbing now, slumped over Foggy at an angle that’s probably going to ache soon. He’s clutching at Foggy’s shoulders and easing his grip every time he thinks he might be holding on too tightly, and then tightening again as if Foggy’s going to disappear.

 _I’m not going anywhere_ , the hand against Matt’s back says. It lingers when Foggy’s throat constricts, too tight for words, then Foggy caves— takes a cue from Matt and holds on to his friend for dear life as exhaustion takes a back seat to emotions.

Matt doesn’t move a muscle, stays in that awkward position until Foggy’s all cried out, saying goodbye to something that never existed.

“How’re you feeling?” Matt asks after the hiccups subside and he’s crowded Foggy’s side table with five cups of water when Foggy asked for a little something to drink.

“Tired, but otherwise, pretty okay, I guess.”

“That’s...yeah, that’s good.” Matt nods, tongue doing a quick dance across his lips. “You would mumble, when you were…but most of it I couldn’t catch. Used to happen a couple times a day but then it got more frequent in the last two days. I heard you just now, right before you woke up, asking me to wait for you.” Matt looks pained. “It was the clearest I’ve heard you, so I hoped...”

Another flash of similarity from his dream leaves an ache.

“How long was I out?” he asks.

“Seven days.”

“...you were here this whole time?”

“Karen and I took turns during visiting hours. Once they were over, I...stayed as close as I could,” he says, mouth a guilty twist, like he wasn’t already doing enough. “Your parents and Brett came to see you a few times. Marci, too, we met in the lobby on Tuesday.”

“Oh. Um, thank you.” Foggy doesn’t quite know what to make of Matt practically keeping vigil over him, and the shoulder with a bullet scar suddenly feels tender.

Time to change the topic.

“What happened to Smithers in the end? Last I remember the guy was getting his ass handed to him.”

Matt frowns at the name and wrinkles his nose. “He’s in Rykers now. I tried to get him to fix what he did, but he said the only way out was to reject whatever you were experiencing. Chances of that happening were slim though, because who would be willing to give up a perfect life?”

“Oh,” Foggy says. “So...the plan was that anyone hit by, what was it again? Oblivia? would remain unconscious for the rest of their lives?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“Guess I made a good choice, then.” Foggy shrugs. He knows definitely made the right decision, but…

“What happened there? In your perfect life?”

Foggy breathes in sharply. He thought he’d have at least a few more hours before the question came up. Matt freezes like a guilty child for a second, then he crumples in on himself.

“Sorry— I shouldn’t— You don’t have to answer that.”

“No, it’s...” Foggy wants to say it’s okay, but he can’t muster up enough truth to support that sentiment.

He remembers their rule about no secrets in his dream and he wants that here as well, but how much of that could work in the real world, when reactions weren’t always going to be what he hoped for? When there was a very real possibility that the whole truth could have Matt fleeing?

“It was pretty much perfect, just like Smithers said it would be. Karen had a great new apartment and Doris was her neighbor, everyone was really happy— my parents, Brett, even. Never seen him flash so much teeth before. Nelson and Murdock was doing _very_ well and we even had AC,” Matt chuckles at that, “and we were...we were great, Matt. Really great.” A stricken look crosses Matt’s face. Foggy doesn’t want to know what that might mean.

And that’s the bare bones of it. Foggy keeps details as vague as he can, glosses over the depth of their...friendship, and admits that talking about all this is disorienting and painful. It’s a slightly lazy way to ask for an out but Matt gives it to him and doesn’t probe any further.

Karen rushes in an hour later and flings her arms around Foggy the moment she sees him.

“Oh, Foggy,” she sniffles, relieved. “The next time some loon so much as hurls a trash can at us you steer clear, you hear me?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Foggy leans back to grin at her. Karen laughs and pulls him in again, holds him a little too tight but Foggy takes it all in.

He sneaks a look at Matt, smiling in the corner. “Get in here, buddy,” he says, sticking an arm out, beckoning Matt forward. Matt huffs a laugh and shuffles forward into the group hug.

This might not be a perfect life, but he’s still got his friends, and he's loved.

Matt gets shooed home after a couple of poorly stifled yawns. Karen stays with Foggy for the rest of the evening until the nurses make their rounds, stealing his jello as he tells her about the life he dreamed up for her. Then she catches him up on the major headlines he’s missed, and tells him about how the news cycle had a field day with Smithers’ arrest.

“Best part? They dropped the ‘crazy’, so it’s just Plantman now. Even omitted the space to make it one word.”

Foggy snorts. “Wow. That’s...gotta be a new high for creativity.”

“I know. Ellison couldn’t stop poking fun at it. Oh, and uh,” Karen shifts in her seat and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, “you might want to lay low for a few days after you get discharged. Since you were the only person hurt by Smithers’ weapon, you’ve sorta become...”

“No. Don’t say it.”

“I know, I’m sorry.” Karen winces, apologetic.

“At least tell me they used a good photo of me,” Foggy groans.

===

Marci comes by the next day.

“Hoping to catch another eyeful?”

Marci rolls her eyes and flips her hair with dramatic flair. “If you wanted another Foggy bear all you had to do was ask, you know. No need for the hospitals.” She perches at the corner of his bed. “But seriously, take better care of yourself okay? This is what, your third hospital stay in almost three years?”

Foggy shrugs. “Eh. Comes with being me, I guess.”

“No. Nuh uh. You don’t get to do that to me. I won’t let you die, got that? I need someone to hang with and you’re my favorite person.” Marci pokes a finger at his chest.

“And by ‘hang with’, you mean bully,” Foggy says, dryly.

“Like I said. Favorite person.”

Foggy grunts, but pats her hand.

“I’m really, really glad you’re okay, Foggy,” Marci says, tone gentle now, and tucks his hair behind his left ear.

“Me too. And thanks, for coming by. Today and the last time.”

“Anything for my Foggy Bear. And hey, at least Matt knew better this time round, right?”

Foggy gives her a look. “I never mentioned Matt.”

“Look, I know your mouth was moving and saying things but honestly, all I heard was ‘Thank you, Marci, for being generally awesome when Matt wasn’t’. Also your face was doing the I-am-sad-without-Matt thing.” Marci waves vaguely over his face and ignores his look of protest. “What? Give me some credit, we did use to date.”

“Ugh,” Foggy sighs, scrubs a hand over his face. “But yeah, Matt’s...he’s different now. Good different.”

“Hm,” Marci says, noncommittally. “He owes you that much, at least.”

===

“I owe it to us,” Matt says, voice a little damp, a few days after Foggy’s discharged. He hasn’t left Foggy’s side— helping Foggy get settled, taking care of groceries, meals, chores, all of it. “You just focus on resting,” he had insisted. It was a little unnerving; Foggy always saw himself as the one doing the fussing and not the other way round, and seeing Matt puttering around his apartment made it harder to get over the memories.

Across the couch, Matt starts to worry at his sock-clad toes when Foggy doesn’t say anything for a long while.

“Forget I said anything. It was a dumb—”

“Matt,” Foggy starts, sighing. “Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate everything you’re saying, but...you don’t _have_ to do this. I don’t want— please don’t feel like you have to do this because you’re feeling guilty or—” This was a mistake. He should never have told Matt about the nightmares he used to have, because now Matt’s trying to make up for it and it’s too close to what he wishes they could be. It’s... _overwhelming_.

Matt’s eyes grow wide, his expression pleading and fretful. He shakes his head vehemently. “No, no. I- I really want to. I mean, I do feel guilty, and this whole incident has made me... re-evaluate a lot of things, but it’s not— Foggy. I _want_ to text you when I’m home safe so you know I’m really working on being more careful.” A pause. Matt goes quiet, chin down for a moment, and then there’s a defiant jut to it when he looks up. “Actually, if...if you’d like, I was thinking it would be good if we could maybe talk strategy sometimes,” he says. Panic flashes across his face, then he adds “But you don’t have to, of course,” in a hurry.

He never told Matt about any of this. Hearing Matt ask for things Foggy branded himself a fool for wanting, things that couldn’t possibly happen outside a dream, pushes overwhelming into raw nerve territory.

There’s no point being embarrassed. Foggy doesn’t fight the prick of tears, just rubs his eyes and counts the pillows on his bed until he finds his voice.

“I miss you,” he whispers. Present tense— no explanation needed, and Matt’s face tells Foggy that he understands. What they had, what they were, what they could’ve become.

===

It starts with the nightly texts to let Foggy know he’s back safe, then it slips into their Daredevil plans and discussions, and eventually, their everyday conversations.

Matt probably thinks he’s being very covert about all of it throughout the month or so that passes, but it’s impossible to miss the fond reminiscing carelessly wrapped in a casual exterior.

Karen always purses her lips like she’s trying not to laugh when he does it after a couple of drinks. He’s not fooling anyone; Foggy knows he’s working his way up to something. There’s a faint idea of what that might be, so he keeps his fingers crossed.

And because Hogarth only takes it easy on him for his first week back, it’s back to the usual in no time. He’s in his living room, notes scattered around him on the couch and the coffee table. Matt’s there, helping him out because this needs to be done by...yesterday, actually. Foggy is stressed and tired and he’s been reading the same page three times and nothing is getting in. He sighs.

“Remind me again why I thought being a lawyer out-merited a career in carving meats,” he groans.

Matt squeezes his shoulder, wanders over to the fridge to get Foggy a beer. “Take a break. Here, next best thing after popsicles since you’re out of them.”

“Thanks, buddy,” Foggy says, takes a swig and flops back against the sofa. “And thanks for helping out with...all this.” He sweeps an arm over the papers.

Matt chuckles. “Kinda feels like first year mock trials again.” He grins, lips curling loose at the edges. They falter for a second when Matt looks like he’s debating whether to say something else, but then he presses them into a stiff smile.

“What was that?”

“Hmm?” Like Matt’s surprised he got caught.

“Whatever it was you wanted to say.” It comes out a little bolder than expected. “Come on,” Foggy wheedles.

Matt hunches in on himself, embarrassed, two seconds away from slinking out of the apartment. “I was just, wondering,” he drags his words and clears his throat. “If you ever— what Nelson and Murdock might’ve been if it was still around.”

“You mean, besides the entire time I was dreaming about it?” Nothing wrong with nudging this in the direction Foggy thinks— hopes— Matt’s headed towards, right?

Matt nods, bites his lip so hard Foggy can almost see the part where it turns white, where teeth meets skin.

“Yeah, definitely.”

“Oh, okay.”

“Just okay? You’re gonna have to help me out a little here, Matt.” Foggy says, voice soft.

Matt looks pained. “It’s— it’s nothing. It’s just talk. Karen and I were just making up what-if’s, back when you were in the hospital. We had no idea what you were dreaming of exactly, but occasionally you would mumble our names, and we’d wonder. What if things were different, what if I never suggested that we shutter our firm, what if Karen worked out an arrangement to do a weekly column because she wants to come back, what if...” He clenches his fists until his lip stops quivering. “Sorry. You’ve got a good thing going now. I shouldn’t be talking about this, I shouldn’t spoil—”

“Matt, stop.” No more struggling. It always hurts, watching Matt like this.

Matt blinks up at Foggy.

“I gotta admit, that Karen bit was particularly detailed.” He takes a breath, and goes for it. “Would you…maybe, like to be partners again?”

The fact has always remained that they’re better together; _best_ together. It’s an irrefutable truth, and Foggy wants to try. He’s going to work hard and do all he can to make sure they’re stronger this time, able to weather more challenges, that what happened after the Frank Castle case never happens again.

That they’ll remain in each others’ lives.

“And before you ask, my answer is yes. Yes, I want this too. This isn’t because I think it’s something you want to hear.” Foggy ignores the wild jungle beat behind his rib cage. “But Matty, no more secrets, okay?”

“Okay,” Matt whispers, and lunges into Foggy’s arms.

===

“Hey, Foggy?” Matt asks, later.

“Yeah?”

“Maybe...one day, when you’re ready, you could tell me more about your perfect life. I’ll wait.” He’s nervous, pink creeping from ears to cheeks, exactly like when he gave up his last secret and told Foggy how he felt about him. “I know I’ll never live up everything I was, but I— I’d like to try.”

Foggy’s eyebrows scrunch. Is— is he saying what Foggy thinks he’s saying? Granted, Matt said he understood why Foggy tried to be as truthfully vague about their relationship as he could back in the hospital, but…there’s no way Matt could know _exactly_ why, could he?

Knowing what the payoff was, or the potential of it, at least, has made him less hesitant about deliberately seeking certain things out. Nelson and Murdock was one of them, but this— it’s too much. It’s...everything; and it’s probably at a price he can’t afford. There’s probably a reason why it happened in a perfect world and not here.

“I don't wanna lose you.” Whether it’s a plea like the last time he said it, sweating on a sidewalk in summer, or a succinct explanation for his hesitation in pursuing something more, it doesn’t matter. It’s the truth, and Foggy lets his heart say what his words can’t.

“You won't,” Matt replies, same answer just like last time, and Foggy may not have ears like Matt, but he hears it. This time he doesn’t ask Matt to make it a promise, because it already is.

Foggy swallows around the lump in his throat. “Thanks, Matty,” he says, and lets the “I love you” slip under his tongue.

But he wants to say it. Out loud, and, if he’s brave enough to admit, with a fraction of that reckless, carefree happiness that happened once upon a dream.

One day, maybe. One day.

**Author's Note:**

> Snuggly hugs and hot cocoa for making it to the end ♥ヽ(╯▽╰)ﾉ♥ 
> 
> I first started this fic _waaay_ back, like, last year back, and was pretty sure this would never see the light of day (the early drafts were super weird and dramatic), but then that Supergirl ep came on and told my procrastinate-y butt to get it together, so ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Samuel Smithers, a.k.a. Plantman, is a canon Marvel villain who, I'd like to imagine, would be the perfect candidate to come up with the MCU-version of Black Mercy, a plant that creates a dream of a person's perfect life. Besides the comics, Black Mercy was also featured in an episode of Justice League Unlimited and Supergirl.
> 
> Title from the Superman comic of the same name.
> 
> Come say hi [on tumblr!](http://ellicelluella.tumblr.com/)


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